


through the dark streets they go searching

by tosca1390



Category: Once Upon a Time (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a wrong that needs to be righted, and not just because Henry is under the impression that Mary Margaret is her mother and John Doe is her father, because that’s getting into territory that’s a little too bizarre for Emma to handle right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	through the dark streets they go searching

**Author's Note:**

> Set post 1x03, "Snow Falls".

*

“You know that’s not his wife,” Emma says as she strides through the heavy wooden doors into the main floor of the police station. It’s dark and lit purple-orange with the coming dusk, and the Sheriff is alone at his desk, just as she thought he would be. She wonders if there are really any other police officers in this town, or whether he shoulders all of Regina’s needs on his own.

There’s another thought nagging, that perhaps he really does shoulder _all_ her needs, but she ignores it because what does she care?

Sheriff Graham raises his eyes to her, the green banker’s lamp on his desk illuminating a small pool around him. His face is heavy with shadows and lines tonight; it’s odd, to see him so somber. “Miss Swan?”

“That woman. Katherine, or whatever. That’s not his wife,” she repeats, coming to a halt in front of his desk. She plants her palms flat on the cool wood surface, leaning over. Her hair falls from behind her ears across her shoulders.

“What proof do you have for this little conjecture?” he drawls, but there is no heat or press behind it.

Her fingers curl against the desk, nails digging slightly into the unpolished wood. “My gut.”

“As widely-renowned as that might be, this woman does have a marriage certificate,” he says after a moment.

“I bet she does,” Emma mutters, straightening and crossing her arms over her chest.

He leans back in his chair, the joints creaking in the cool quiet with the shifting of the weight. “That’s not good enough for you?”

“No, and it shouldn’t be for you! God, are you really just Regina’s patsy?” she snarls, her nerves frayed thin.

The scruff of his beard masks the curve of his mouth, but the crinkle of his eyes serves as a barometer of his amusement. She hates when men are _amused_ with her. “A legal document is just that – legal.”

Emma sets her jaw and stares past his head, between the thin openings of the blinds. “And very convenient,” she mutters. The town is quiet at night; everything seems to die after seven o’clock, which is ridiculous to her, but whatever. At least the town isn’t dry. Yet.

“Why does this bother you so much, Emma?” he asks after a moment, somberness softening his words.

She opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it immediately. The look on Mary Margaret’s face for the past two days would be enough for anyone, she thinks. But there is something more, a nagging deep in her gut; this is a wrong that needs to be righted, and not just because Henry is under the impression that Mary Margaret is her mother and John Doe is her father, because that’s getting into territory that’s a little too bizarre for Emma to handle right now. It’s weird enough rooming with Mary Margaret with Henry’s earnest voice lingering at the back of her mind with that reminder.

“Because it’s shoddy work,” she says at last, leaning her hip against the edge of his desk.

“On my part?” he asks, all amusement as he rises.

She follows him with her gaze as he walks around the desk, standing face to face with her. Her fingers curl against the smooth leather of her jacket, her mouth suddenly dry. He is a physical stability in this very unstable town. The urge to lay hands on him for a moment of solidity is intense, a warm thrumming in her veins. “You have to feel it too. It’s so convenient, and too easy, and –

“And it all works out just as Regina wants it to?” he drawls, accent thickening over every word.

Rolling her eyes, she straightens to her full height. “This isn’t about her. This is a about a guy who’s being shanghaied into a life he may not belong to, with a wife who may not be his. Come on. Are you a police officer or aren’t you?”

“Insulting me hasn’t gotten you what you want thus far. Maybe you should try a different tack,” he says lightly. But she has touched something, a nerve in him; his gaze darkens on hers, the line of his mouth thinning.

She wets her lips, pushing her hair off her shoulders. “I’m just asking for a little gut instinct here, buddy. It’s not a lot.”

He ducks his head for a moment, thick hair curling across his brow. His hands curl into fists at his thighs, knuckles white in the thin yellow light from his lamp. “Yes. I think something’s off,” he says at last, voice low.

A grin splits her mouth. An irrational happiness surges through her just for being heard. She wonders if this is how Henry feels, day in and day out, wanting to be heard and listened to. _Just another reason to stay_ , she thinks. _I’m the only one who listens to him at all_.

“Thank you. Come on,” she says, grabbing his arm and tugging him along. He is shockingly warm, even through his thick jacket.

“And just where are we going?” he asks, coming along rather willingly.

“To find those tapes the Mayor so generously described.”

*

The hospital is silent but for beeping monitors and the snoring of the guards on duty. In the cool bluish light they move quietly, only their jackets creaking and creasing.

“This is a problem,” he mutters next to her.

“What is?” she asks as she crouches at the security closet door. She pulls a pin from her jacket pocket and sets to work on the lock.

“I’m the Sheriff, and I’m breaking in to a secured room.”

She spares him a glance. His brow is deeply furrowed, eyes narrow. “You sure are an ethical one, aren’t you?” she mutters, biting the tip of her tongue in concentration.

“I think there are two sides to every story. I also think that sometimes people get carried away in their obsessions,” he says dryly.

“Is that directed at me?” she says with a smile. The telltale give of the lock pops at her ear, and she turns the knob with ease, rising to her full height.

Her knees give a little under the sudden weight change, and she stumbles just briefly. His hand is at her elbow, his chest to her back, a steady force to lean on. “No. It’s just an observation from years of police work,” he says low near her ear.

A shiver curls down her spine as his fingers tighten around her elbow, pressing into the soft flesh through the tight leather of her jacket. “Sometimes people are just bad,” she says at last, glancing up at him.

His mouth curls downwards, eyes dark in the shadowy light. “Exactly the measured response I expected from you, Miss Swan.”

She misses her first name on his mouth, the way the accent curls around the vowels. Swallowing hard, she walks forward into the room. He is close behind her, crowding her into the tiny closet. She reaches for the metal chain for the light, and pulls.

“Oh come on,” she mutters as they remain in darkness. “Sometimes this place is absolutely unreal,” she adds as she fumbles for her phone.

The white light from the screen is barely enough to make out his face, but she knows he is smiling. She can feel it in her bones. “If you don’t like it, then why stay?”

“Because Henry wants me to,” she says immediately, turning her back to him and fixing her attention on the shelves of security tapes. “No wonder it was so easy to switch the tapes. This place is one security pitfall after another,” she mutters.

“But you don’t believe him,” he says flatly.

Sighing, she leans her forehead against the shelves, shutting her eyes for a moment. “Whether I believe him doesn’t matter,” she says at last, and thinks of what a change that is from just a week ago, when she was ready to write the kid and his theories off completely. But there is something to watching his theories come to light and shape in the form of a kiss and a phrase; _you saved me_ haunts her in the cool nights, when she thinks of those moments at the bridge.

“So what then? You want him back?”

“No,” she says quietly, a phantom ache lingering in her middle. “I’m not the maternal type. But he wants me here, at least so that he feels like someone is on his side. And maybe I’m biased, but his mom is way harsh.”

“She is,” he says at last.

“So I’m not imagining it,” she says, turning to look in his direction.

He has his own phone out, searching the other side’s shelves. Her fingers itch to crawl across the breadth of his shoulders, his jacket stretched tightly across his back. She curls her grip around her phone, leaning back against the shelves.

“She’s not as she used to be,” he says after a silent beat. “And I worry for Henry.”

She has the distinct sensation of falling, of a slow creeping down to a hard rock bottom. _You’re in it now_ , she thinks, wetting her lips. “You do seem fond of him,” she says after a moment.

“What can I say? He reminds me of myself at that age,” he murmurs, turning back around to face her. He holds a tape up between his fingers. “Here you go. This ought to give you what you’re looking for,” he says, taking the two steps towards her to cross the small closet.

Pressing back against the shelves, she takes the tape from him. Their fingertips brush, a slow sort of heat spreading from his touch. “Why are you helping me?” she asks after a moment, tilting her head up towards his.

“Because I think you’re here to help Henry. If you help some of these other people in town at the same time, it’s only a good thing in my book,” he says.

The light from their phones fade, settling them into the safety of pure darkness. Abruptly she feels a hand at her waist, as her free fingers settle at his chest. “No more random arrests?”

He laughs, low and soft. The sound reverberates against her skin. She is very aware of how close his mouth is to hers. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Emma.”

Biting at her lip, she tilts her mouth towards his. In the dark, she grazes the corner of his lips, the rough of his beard catching at her skin. His fingers dig into her waist, his weight a heavy press at her chest against the shelves. “This does not seem like a good idea,” he murmurs at her mouth, breath warm and sweet like cocoa.

“The whole of my life is one bad idea after another,” she says quietly. “But you’re good to Henry.”

“And that matters why?”

“Because it means you’re not a creep,” she mutters.

“You do have a way with words,” he says before he kisses her for real, his mouth warm and open against hers. The sensation of falling has returned, but she curls her tongue to his and breathes through it. The heavy scent of pine and dirt lingers at his skin. His beard catches at her skin, his hands firm at the curve of her waist.

She’s just about to slide her fingers under the hem of his uniform shirt, to warm muscle and skin beneath, when footsteps echo outside the door. They both still, their mouths parting with a soft aching pop. She swallows down a breath as the footsteps stop. She can see the shadow of them through the light creeping through at the bottom of the door. Graham’s hands twitch at her ribs, fingers spanning the length of her side.

After an unsettled beat, the footsteps pass, the sounds fading down the hall. She breathes out and leans back, sighing as he takes an unsteady step back from her.

“Well,” he says at last.

“Yeah,” she mumbles, tucking her hair behind her ears.

Those are the last words they exchange that evening, as they sneak out of the hospital and part at the doors.

Her fingers touch her mouth every so often though, as the hours pass.

*

Two days later, Emma storms into the station, once more under the cover of darkness.

“Do you ever knock?” he asks, standing at his desk with files in his hands.

“Do you ever go home?” she retorts, holding out the tape to him.

He sets his paperwork aside. His eyes fall to her mouth for a moment. She feels herself grow warm, the flush starting at her throat and crawling up. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“The tape is doctored,” she says as he takes it from her hands. “Yes, it has John Doe saying the name Katherine in his sleep. But it’s not accurate.”

“And you know this how?”

She shrugs, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets, partly in an effort not to touch him again. “I analyzed it.”

“And you have that equipment just lying about, do you?” he asks dryly.

Fixing her stare on him, she raises her eyebrows. “Is security really that bad around here?”

His gaze widens. “You broke in here and used my equipment?” he exclaims.

“I thought you knew, _Sheriff_ ,” she retorts, grinning smugly.

He looks between her and the tape for a long moment, shaking his head. “I ought to arrest you.”

“Oh, you ought to, huh?” she teases.

He stares at her, eyes dark and mouth set tightly. She tries not to stare at his lips.

“Okay,” he says at last. “What’s he really saying on the tape?”

Emma smiles, and sits herself on his desk. If his fingers catch at the curve of her knees, and his jaw brushes her temple as he leans over her, she doesn’t mind.

*


End file.
